


(Safe Inside) My Rib Cage

by lily_zen



Series: Infected (All This Sweetness Left to Rot) [4]
Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: Angst, Epiphanies, First Time, Hate Crimes, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:10:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_zen/pseuds/lily_zen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jiyong's got two modes, one where he feels nothing and the other where he feels too much all at once. Seungri has to deal with the consequences of awakening the latter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Safe Inside) My Rib Cage

(Safe Inside) My Rib Cage

Fandom: BIGBANG RPF

Rating: E/Y

Warnings: sexual content, violence, gay slurs

Author: Lily Zen

 

\---

Author’s Notes: Set after _Garbage,_ this story draws on some real life events. As such, I’d like to take the time to remind you all that this is a work of fiction. The GD and Seungri you see represented here are just that— _representations_ —based off of their on-stage performances. I don’t know them, so I have no idea how they act or what they do when the cameras are off. I repeat: these are fictionalized versions based off of their on-camera personas.

Disclaimer: BB is real, so I don’t own them. This is just for fun, not profit.

\---

He lied; the second he’d stepped off the plane in Seoul, Kwon Jiyong set his phone to ignore all of his members’ calls. He knows he shouldn’t, but he does anyway because he can’t handle Seungri’s teasing anymore, the way he’s been subtly and not-so-subtly pushing Jiyong to analyze his own behavior over the years; he doesn’t want to deal with Youngbae’s burning curiosity, or Daesung’s inquiring glances, or god forbid that Seunghyun catches on, then it’ll be nonstop torment until Ji dies of embarrassment right in front of them. Instead, he sends all their calls straight to voicemail and ignores the flurry of text messages.

He doesn’t check the group chat either, which is odd because normally he keeps up on it with religious fervor. It’s the easiest way to keep track of everyone, to organize, and to share information. At least that’s what he tells himself but now he catches himself thinking about all the times he’s checked the chat just to see what Seungri is doing, and it makes him feel faintly sick. Has he always been perving out on Seungri, and he’s just never noticed or wanted to acknowledge it? The life-altering realizations just keep rolling in, and Jiyong isn’t sure he’s prepared for any more.

The first week is great. He sleeps for almost an entire day, plays with his cat, and orders in food because his fridge, long abandoned, has nothing to offer in the way of comestibles. Then he starts catching up on his programs, and laughs to himself because Seungri always makes fun of him for having “programs” like he’s a retired grandmother. Of course, Seungri watches most of the same shows he does, so if Ji’s a little old biddy, so is Seungri.

That first week, he manages to only think about Seungri obsessively about twenty times a day. The other twenty, he says, are totally casual. It is normal to wonder what your friend is doing at the exact moment that you are pulling the covers up at night, ready to lie down for the evening, and have to stifle the urge to text him something inane like, “What doing?”

\---

_Let me hear your voice_

\---

“Are you out of your mind?” Seungri hisses venomously as he swings the door to Jiyong’s hotel room closed with a vicious push.

Jiyong knew he was in for it the second pulled away from Seungri. A glance up into those startled eyes slowly beginning to narrow with anger was enough to confirm it.

It was only a matter of time until Seungri cornered him.

He just wishes it wasn’t here in his hotel room, where all their significant exchanges seemed to be centering around lately. Jiyong wants a shower, some food, and to go to sleep; he wants to beat himself up over his own actions for a few hours while he stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t want Seungri up in his face right now acting like Jiyong was way out of line, like Seungri wasn’t the one who initiated this whole goddamn clusterfuck of a situation.

But Seungri was not going to be delayed any further; he’d been silent after the show, mercilessly quiet in the car, and the whole ride up in the elevator with the rest of their members, the stifled words had beat down on the space between Jiyong’s shoulder blades.

Seungri had—quite rightfully, Jiyong reminded himself—stalked Jiyong to his room, and slipped in behind him. Now it was time to have it out.

\---

_It’s shitty and enraging, I think I’m going crazy at the thought of you_

\---

The second week proves more of a challenge. Jiyong is finally starting to recover his energy, and with that comes more of a burning urge to keep busy. He texts Daesung a silly string of incomprehensible emojis to let the younger man know that he’s still alive, and walks around the city on his own, not sure what to do with himself and the abundance of free time he suddenly finds he has. He’s supposed to be resting, whatever that means; YG-mandated ‘rest.’

He takes pictures of everything with his phone—it’s a better camera than his actual camera now anyway—storing away all the scenes that speak to him, and later they’ll all get chewed up in the garbage disposal inside him, creating some product unrecognizable from its origin that’s none the less lauded as brilliant. He ignores how much that chaps his ass. He isn’t brilliant, he just works harder than everyone else.

Jiyong snags a picture of a chaise lounge in a window display and sends it to Seunghyun, knowing the eccentric rapper will appreciate the thought. The darkened store front means that it’s set up under a halo of light, and if that isn’t artsy, he doesn’t know what the fuck is.

He decides to go to a club. Not one of Seungri’s bouncy, happy Gangnam clubs, because he’s not in the mood to deal with giggling girls who cover their mouths when they smile. He wants the sumptuous, moody underground, and it’s really too bad he’s not back in Japan because then he’d text his friends and have the crew roll up with him. He’s lived in Seoul long enough though that he knows where to go to find heavy, throbbing bass, blood red walls, and girls who don’t smile and wear too much black.

He never makes it there.

As he’s cutting through the chaotic streets, he spots a group of boys—everyone younger than him, he automatically writes off as “boys” now, unless he knows them personally and has gauged their character—in the narrow alleyway between a closed-up shop and an all-night convenience store. Normally, he wouldn’t pay much attention to that. Kids who weren’t able to get into the clubs were always looking for public places to congregate. The only reason he hesitates is because he hears the word, “Fag!”

Jiyong makes the mistake of looking over his shoulder, and notices for the first time that the kids have arranged themselves in a loose circle. There are four of them. In the center, looking terrified and meek is a fifth. There’s a gay club around here, Jiyong remembers. The boy, in his tight jeans and too short shirt, must have come from there only to stumble into a clash with some little idiots looking to cause trouble. It was unfortunate timing.

‘Mind your own business,’ he tells himself.

Then he hears it again, clearer this time because now Jiyong is focused on them. He’s waiting for it. “He’s looking at you. Why you looking at him? Huh, faggot? You wanna suck his dick? You wanna suck _my_ dick?”

A broken cry, and Jiyong is moving before he can think about it, before he can tell himself what a monumentally stupid idea this is.

“Hey!” he shouts, dropping into his deepest register, voice little more than a growl. Jiyong steps off the street entirely and rushes to meet them, suddenly sweating underneath the weight of his coat despite the crisp air.

The scant light casts menacing shadows on the boys’ faces, but he sees surprise followed immediately by menace. The leader of the crew is wearing a fake leather jacket, and later this will make Jiyong laugh because it’s so cliché. Right now though, he’s gripping the cheap jacket by the lapels and throwing the kid with all his might, and it’s maybe a lot more than he would have on a normal time because he’s fucking pissed.

By the kid’s whoosh of air and his widening eyes, Ji guesses he’s suddenly realized how pissed, and that the kid might have to deal with some consequences for his actions.

Then hands are grabbing Jiyong from behind, and he spins, furious, swinging wildly. His fist hits something meaty, and one of the others curses and falls back. It’s been years since Jiyong has fought anyone, not since he was a boy, but he finds all the same fury buried deep within him waiting to be released.

Except he doesn’t lift weights, not really, and he doesn’t know jiu-jitsu, so he gets hit in the face. It burns, but that’s all he can register right then, because the leader’s getting back up, which means they’re about to rally.

Jiyong knees one of the kids in the nuts, shoves him into the other, and sees from the corner of his eye as the twink they were picking on throws himself at one of the boys and they tumble to the ground, punching and kicking and biting.

“I am your fucking elder!” Ji growls as he grabs one kid by his stupid, stylishly long hair, and slams him head first into the side of the convenience store. “You will—“ he punctuates it with another slam, “—respect me!” Slam. He drops the kid, who’s dazed now, and maybe concussed; serves him right, the little shit.

Arms encircle his waist. Jiyong has a second to realize that’s bad, and then he’s getting thrown back into the brick wall of the closed up shop. The remaining two jump him as one unit, and Jiyong has just enough time to throw up his arms to protect his head as they rain their revenge down on him.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ his brain chants frantically, knowing that there’s no way he can get out of this.

They’re yelling now, yelling obscenities in his ears that will echo around later, taunting him with the way they take him back to his childhood. He was fighting then, and it wasn’t that much different. Part of the reason he’d fallen in love with the entertainment industry was because it took him away from that feeling of not belonging.

Their saving grace comes in the form of the angry convenience store owner, who comes into the alleyway with a broom, and he beats off the boys, who scramble away as the shop owner yells after them about disturbing the peace; he called the police, and they’d better hope they’re nowhere around when they show up.

Jiyong sinks to the floor of the alley, exhausted and battered.

The boy, who Ji realizes is wearing artfully applied eyeliner and the remnants of a lip color Jiyong swears he’s worn himself, pulls himself up, and looks at Jiyong. As the old man is questioning whether they’re okay, if they need an ambulance, the boy licks his bloody lower lip and says to Jiyong, “Thank you. Thank you...”

Ji shakes his head weakly, refusing the gratitude as his breath rasps in his lungs like razors.

“We’re fine,” he wheezes to the shop owner, “we’re fine.”

By mutual agreement, Jiyong and the club boy leave before the cops arrive, if they were ever called in the first place. Ji puts the boy in a cab, then calls another for himself.

At home, he lays in bed with ice packs wrapped around his rib cage and feels his face throb in time with his heartbeats. He texts Seungri: _I miss you._

\---

_Finally I realize that I’m nothing without you_

\---

Seungri's got his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, and Ji watches his shoulders hunch forwards as though he's restraining himself.

The door is shut behind them, leaving them in the cool dark. Ji reaches for the lamp on the end of the hotel dresser, carefully pressing the button. The soft, yellow light comes on, casting a long shadow on the left side of Seungri's nose and making his cheekbones look sharper than usual. He'd be lying if he said it wasn't intimidating, but at the same time, Jiyong finds himself suppressing a thrill. There’s a part of him that likes to push people’s buttons too, after all, and it’s perversely excited right now by just how pissed off Seungri is about something that could be easily brushed off as a little fanservice.

"What the fuck, Ji?" Seungri snaps in English. He loves English cuss words, and it always makes Jiyong grin because he's fluent in swearing, but still struggles with everyday English. He continues in their native tongue, speaking fast, words tripping over each other, "You can't just do that whenever you want. It's fine to play around, everybody does at some point, but you can't come at me for real on stage!"  

Despite the fact that Seungri is shouting, Jiyong finds himself terribly serene. He takes his shoes off in the foyer, and Seungri automatically moves to the side so that he can line them up just so. Then he puts his wallet on the dresser with his cell phone and room key. Seungri is still talking behind him, and he half-listens as he strips off his jacket, puts it on a hanger, then peels his t-shirt over his head. His sweat's soaked into the cotton, and it's gross.  

"--and what the hell was up with that look? You had to know I'd pull back; you  _had_  to. I  _have_  to. That's just a given. Do you know how much shit would hit the fan if I didn't? We'd  _both_  be getting called in to Hyun Suk's office."  

Jiyong can feel Seungri's eyes boring into his shoulders as he walks into the bathroom nonchalantly, grabs a fresh towel, and wicks the sweat off his chest and back. The rough terry cloth gets tossed onto the ground. 

"Are you even listening?" Seungri shouts outside the bathroom, his frustration coating his words thickly.  

"Yes," Jiyong answers as he strolls back out, and pulls an undershirt out of the top right drawer of the dresser. "I just don't care."  

"What? What the hell?" That sends Seungri stumbling mentally. His thick, dark brows knit together as he works through that. "I thought you were having some kind of gay panic." He takes his hands out of his pockets, gestures toward Ji from where he's still standing in the foyer. "What happened? You shut your phone off for two weeks—" 

"It was never off," Jiyong interrupts. "I was screening my calls."  

He doesn't have the energy to lie. He doesn't see the point in it anyway. He knows he fucked up, but Seungri was there on stage cradling his face. All of the sudden his heart had done this clench-and-twist maneuver, swooping into his stomach, and he was gulping down cold air as the rollercoaster they were on took a sharp left. It was so fast, and it shouldn’t have affected him as much as it did; he blamed it on the bigots in the alley, and the sweet kid who kept asking if Jiyong was okay afterward; he blamed it on Seungri and his insistent need to keep picking at things until they were exposed; he blamed it on anything but himself.

Even though they’d done the choreo a hundred times, all of the sudden this time it was different, this time it was more, and he made a split-second decision with all the well-thought out rationale of Napoleon invading Russia in the winter. He lifted his scarf and moved in for a kiss, and Seungri— _Seungri_ , the idiot who’d started this whole thing in the first place, and whose fault this clearly fucking _was_ —moved back and gave him a blank stare.

Jiyong keeps fucking up, but he’s tired of caring about it, wishes that his life was different; that he wasn’t twenty-seven and still just figuring himself out. He wishes for a moment that his life was normal, and that his every move wasn’t documented on strangers’ cameras.  This whole thing has him twisted up inside, but the only way to untangle it is to keep pulling at the threads, as uncomfortable as that may be. He just hopes he doesn’t come undone while everybody’s watching.

He looks up at Seungri after he pulls on a clean shirt, and says in as clear a voice as he can muster, “I tried to kiss you because that’s what I wanted to do in that moment. I’m not like you, Seunghyun.” He uses Seungri’s given name because that’s what he always does when it’s really serious. It catches Seungri’s attention, makes him listen harder.  

“It’s not as easy for me to hide what I’m feeling,” Jiyong continues, and his hands are nervously twisting the hem of his t-shirt, then smoothing them down so they can be balled up again. “I’ve got two modes: I either suppress everything or I feel it all—maybe too much—at once. That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. That is my one coping method, and you’ve denied me that.”

“Are you saying this is my fault?” Seungri asks, taking a step closer with his brows raised incredulously.

“No,” Jiyong replies quickly, and takes a step back as he shakes his head. “It’s not. It’s mine. I—I guess I’ve been harboring some—” he hesitates, taking a quick breath through his nose; he can feel his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “—inappropriate feelings for you.”

“Which,” Ji can’t help but to add questioningly, “you knew about?” He looks up hopefully, leaving off twisting his shirt in favor of folding his hands together and squeezing them tightly. He touches his index fingers to his mouth, subconsciously holding himself silent.

Seungri doesn’t look surprised. He doesn’t look appalled either. He doesn’t look anything as he shrugs nonchalantly and states, “I knew. I mean, I guessed pretty strongly. Nobody ever really _knows_ until something’s said, which you never would have if I—” Here he breaks off and begins to look away as he deals with his own rising embarrassment.

“If you hadn’t made the first move,” Jiyong finishes for him, dropping his hands by his sides.

“Yeah,” Seungri replies quietly.

There’s a hush in the room then. The two of them make eye contact, Seungri looking up from beneath the heavy fringe of his eyelashes, and it’s almost coy, almost a look that Jiyong’s seen him sport when he’s flirting, but it lacks his stereotypical confidence. That bothers him, because a part of him feels like Seungri should never be unsure. The two things are antithetical. At the same time, that perverse piece of him is glad because Jiyong doesn’t want to be one of Seungri’s women, the girls that flirt and fawn over him. He wants Seungri to work at it—to work Jiyong—until Jiyong _feels_ like being magnanimous. It strikes Jiyong that he likes the idea of being pursued.

It’s Jiyong who closes the distance, and Jiyong who cradles Seungri’s face in his hands, and Jiyong who touches his lips to Seungri’s softly, like a blessing, his lower lip dry and a little rough in the center where the skin is beginning to chap. As far as kisses go, it’s not much of one, because Jiyong’s pride is still stinging a little bit at the way Seungri pulled away from him on stage, and part of him is wondering if he’s about to get rejected again.

When Seungri covers Jiyong’s right hand with his, it makes his heart thump heavy in his chest. Then Seungri slides his grip gently down Jiyong’s forearm to cup his elbow, and it sends lightning streaking down his spine like Seungri is touching things that are much more intimate than this. Seungri’s kiss is just as light as Jiyong’s, an answer to a question neither one is quite willing to ask aloud yet, and it makes Ji’s breath catch momentarily.

He tilts his head slightly to the right, and feels Seungri do the same. The next time their lips touch, there’s more contact, and he can feel Seungri’s breath. After all this time, it almost feels natural. They’ve shared so much, seen so many sides to each other, so why not this?

Seungri lifts his other hand, fits it to Jiyong’s waist just above his track pants. Ji can feel him gearing up for something, so when he moves the transition is seamless. Lips part, tongues meet; Jiyong moves his hands from Seungri’s face. With his right hand, he cards his fingers through Seungri’s white-blond hair, still damp from the half-bath he’d taken after the show. Ji’s left hand caresses Seungri’s neck then rests, gentle and subtly possessive, over his collarbone.

As they learn each other, it winds up being one of those kisses without end, where one kiss merges with another and another until they’re both breathing through their noses, pulling each other as close as they can. It’s interesting, he thinks, him tilting his face up to kiss. It’s not that it makes him feel small or girly, and he definitely doesn’t feel delicate. The pressure of Seungri’s lips communicates more than just momentary lust. This is years of pent-up emotion, things unsaid, actions not taken for fear of consequences. A normal person would buckle under the weight, would back away, but not Jiyong. He just opens his mouth and takes it all in, grips Seungri just as hard and supports him, lets him know without words that if he falls, Ji will catch him. That’s what you do, after all, right? That’s just what you do…

Seungri makes a noise that comes from deep within his chest, and Jiyong’s sure he’s never heard it before. He wants to record it; he wants to put it in a song; he wants to _write_ a song just for that deep, sexy growl, because _fuck_ , if it makes him hard, imagine what it would do to legions of fans; their record sales would skyrocket.

He steps closer. They’re pressed together from chest to thighs now. He can feel Seungri’s erection behind his jeans. It rests against his hip bone; Seungri rocks against him, and without even thinking about it, Jiyong lets go of his hair, tangles his fingers in the belt loops just above Seungri’s ass, and encourages him to do it again.

He swallows the sound Seungri makes, an ecstatic groan, and feels his own arousal leap proportionally. Seungri sucks on his tongue obscenely as he breaks that endless kiss finally, and Jiyong feels the webbing beneath stretch in a way that’s just the right side of painful. His moan stretches out into a sigh as Seungri kisses his way chastely across Jiyong’s cheek and up his jaw to his ear.

Shit, he has a second to think, and then Seungri’s got his earlobe between his teeth and it’s way, way better than his dream. It’s soft and sweet, and his ears are really sensitive. They feel hot, burning with a blush that’s worked its way over his whole body. A wicked tongue licks up the shell of his ear, and then mischievous Seungri gently blows over the wet skin.

“Oh, shit,” Ji whispers out loud as arousal tightens in his gut, fast and hard. He shivers a little as his overheated skin reacts to the cool air.

“Yeah?” Seungri asks, pressing his smiling mouth to the skin beneath his ear.

“Yeah,” Jiyong agrees.

“Figured,” he mutters, lips fluttering over the wings Jiyong’s had etched into his neck. “You love ears; gotta be something to it.”

“Observant little fuck,” Jiyong grumbles, but he’s smiling as he says it. He likes that Seungri pays attention, that Seungri watches him, learns him even when he’s saying nothing. He likes that he doesn’t have to tell Seungri to press him up against the wall, he just does it, and the cool wallpaper feels good against his back. He slings a leg over Seungri’s hip as Seungri leans down into him, and ruts up against him. Everything feels amazing. It’s like being a teenager again, getting that first brush with desire. His insides feel bathed in it, golden and warm, and it’s spilling out of him from his mouth, his eyes, his ears, his fingertips; there’s no way this force can be contained. The only thing to do is let it take him over.

His hands get bold, pushing up Seungri’s t-shirt, rushing over the exposed skin like it’s new territory to be discovered. He kisses Seungri’s face, his neck, his tender, abused ears—he’s going to have to keep a better eye on them—then stretches out the neck line to expose Seungri’s collarbones, which he traces with teeth and tongue.

Deciding he’s had enough of his t-shirt awkwardly jammed up underneath his armpits, Seungri tosses the offending fabric aside, and of course that just leaves more skin for Jiyong to explore. He runs his fingertips questioningly over Seungri’s nipples, and when he doesn’t protest that, pinches them with a bit of force behind it. Immediately, he lets out a giggle because the kid in him can never _not_ laugh at a nipple twister.

Seungri starts laughing too, and kisses his sweaty hair. Jiyong was planning on a shower as soon as he got back to the hotel, but just hadn’t made it there yet. For a moment, he’s insecure, and he hopes his hair isn’t _too_ sweaty, that he doesn’t smell bad, that Seungri doesn’t secretly think he’s gross and is just too nice to say anything. Then all his thoughts scatter as Seungri twists his left nipple in retaliation, and Jiyong giggles again even as he rolls his hips against Seungri.

Hands slide up underneath his shirt and brush his bare stomach. He doesn’t have a lot of muscle. It’s hard for him to put on weight, and so he’d stopped worrying about it. He was healthy, considering the way he smoked and frequently went without sleep, and his doctor said he was fine, so he worked out enough to stay fit and didn’t do much beyond that. Besides, he kind of liked that he was honed thin and moved like a whip through the air when he danced. It looked nice on camera.

There’s always that anxiety though when you’re about to get naked with somebody for the first time. Everything he’s uncomfortable with about his body comes rushing to the forefront of his mind at that first touch of skin on skin, even though it makes no sense because he’s been unclothed around Seungri before. Still, his muscles flutter and flinch away in discomfort, and Jiyong finds himself stuttering, “I’ve never…with a man…before.” The bed looms in the distance like a threat.

At that Seungri raises an eyebrow. “Never? Not even a little?”

“No,” Jiyong replies with wide eyes. He’s kept such a tight leash on himself over the years, especially since his pot scandal, that he hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of experimentation. He was straight he’d asserted over and over until that label, that identity was the only one he could see. “You have?” he asks.

Seungri shrugs in Jiyong’s arms, but it’s not out of discomfort or shame. “A couple times, no big deal.”

“A—with _who?”_ Ji very nearly shouts. He bites down on an ugly unfurling of jealousy.

“Nobody you’d know,” Seungri answers, amusement thick in his tone. He kisses the corner of Jiyong’s mouth to make it up to him.

“Really?” Jiyong narrows his eyes.

“Really,” Seungri states, then he kisses Ji more fully on the lips. “Besides, you should be glad; I don’t know how two virgins figure anything out.”

It’s then that it occurs to Jiyong he _is_ a virgin, at least in this. It’s an odd sensation, and it doesn’t sit well with him. He likes being experienced; he likes being in control.

“But,” Seungri adds breathily in Jiyong’s ear, “if you’re not comfortable, we can stop. I mean, we should probably stop. You’re new to this, and I don’t want you to have another meltdown or anything.” There’s a hint of laughter there, and Jiyong tries to think of a clever response, but as Seungri speaks, he’s running his fingers over the soft skin of Jiyong’s rib cage and abdomen, sending pleasurable shivers through his body. Those questing digits slip between his waistband, running over and over the skin just below his navel.

“Shut up,” he finally settles for. With a huff, he grips Seungri’s wrist, guides it lower, and gasps as Seungri grasps his cock like they’re old friends shaking hands. “Fuck,” he hisses, and pushes his back into the wall, angling his hips up in a subconscious offering.

Things after that get a little blurry. It’s all heat and that firm grip on his dick, Seungri’s thumb spreading drops of pre-cum and slicking it down Jiyong’s length with his hand. They shift positions because Jiyong’s trying to climb Seungri like a monkey and not lose that perfect angle, so he puts both feet flat on the floor, and Seungri’s knee presses up against his balls just right, gives him something to ride out the feeling on.

Seungri alternates between kissing him stupid and paying attention to his ears and neck. In between he whispers earnestly, “Is that good? How’s that feel? Like this?” as he learns just what Jiyong likes and what he needs to get off. It makes him feel terribly young, giddy with excitement, and embarrassed all at once because he thought he’d given up hand jobs when he discovered the joy of pussy, but in the moment it seems like this is just right, this is just what needs.

He comes biting his lip because he wants to shout and his brain chooses that moment to conveniently remind him that Youngbae is in the next room, and the last thing he needs is Youngbae teasing him when this is still so fresh, so new that there isn’t even a word yet for it. So instead Jiyong sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and holds it all in, pushes all the sounds he wants to make into that tender flesh until he feels it split and begin to bleed.

Afterward, Seungri licks at the abused flesh, and they’re still kissing, still touching. Jiyong has his hand stuffed halfway down the back of Seungri’s jeans, cupping his ass, and Seungri’s hips are snapping against him as he breathes out hard from his nose like he’s running a race. He comes in his jeans with a grunt. Jiyong feels a little bad about that, because it’s going to be a gross, sticky mess and dry hard, and he promises that next time, _next time_ he will actually get Seungri’s pants off.

Seungri just laughs it off, kisses Jiyong again, and says, “It’s okay. It’s fine. They’re just clothes.”

Later on, they’re in bed together, touching again, touching some more, and it’s sensual but not sexual. There’s more there; there’s trust, there’s tranquility, there’s a bone-deep sense of belonging that comes from all the years they’ve spent as friends.

Seungri’s wearing a pair of Jiyong’s sweatpants. They’re a little tight across his thighs, but Jiyong thinks it’s a good look. He says as much, and Seungri laughs. It’s his favorite sound. It makes Jiyong smile every time, so wide that his lips peel back to expose his gums.

He puts his mouth over Seungri’s pec, bites lightly at the flesh there. “Stop that. Be quieter or Youngbae will hear and wonder why we’re having a party and he’s not invited.”

“Ouch,” Seungri says, but he’s still grinning. He doesn’t mind the edge of Jiyong’s teeth just like he doesn’t mind his sharp tongue. “Alright, alright, I’ll be quieter.”

“Good,” Jiyong says and cuddles closer, looping an arm over Seungri and closing his eyes. It feels good here like this. It feels like some place he wants to stay. It feels like coming home.

\---

_This word is serious; I love you_

\---

**FIN**


End file.
